“But I feel certain of my facts, sir.”
“Ah, you may! I’m not so sure I do. Look here, man! How the devil can I arrest a passenger when he’s got an alibi like that? Look what we’re up against. There’s a man who’ll swear he was with Andersson all night, there’s the evidence of the night-steward and his own steward. Personally I doubt if a man who’s as tight as Andersson seems to have been, could have done such a precision-killing at all. Then there’s the fact that you’ve had word from your own chief that whatsisname, Karstad, is dead. Further, I very much doubt if this Karstad was — or is if you like — the only man in the world who ever used that particular killing method. He may have been the only agent to use it, but everyone’s not an agent. And anyhow, it’s only that tiny bruise that supports your murder theory at all! Gresham could have had a simple heart attack. He wasn’t a young man, poor fellow.” Sir Donald banged his fist on the desk. “There’s nothing we can do on such slender grounds — shreds — of mere theorizing. No one would ever convict him. The Line’d be sued for damages, wrongful arrest, everything under the sun! You’ve got to look at this sensibly, Shaw.”
“I’m trying to, sir.”
“Good! Then have a drink to help the process.” The Captain got up and crossed the cabin, took a bottle of gin and two glasses from a cupboard and came back with them. He poured out a couple of stiff gins and pushed one across to Shaw.
He said, “Skin off your nose, my boy!”
“Good health,” Shaw murmured. He lit a cigarette, rubbed a hand across his eyes. He said, “I’m still convinced I’m right, but of course I see your point. There may be other ways of going about this — watch him, give him more rope and bowl him out properly later on… I suppose if Andersson was arrested now on what I’ll have to agree does amount to no real evidence, we’d lose any chance of finding out what really is going on, and of course a lot of security would be blown automatically by the time he’d kicked up a stink.”
“Undoubtedly.”
Shaw got up and walked over to a big square port, looked out for a while at the blue Mediterranean and the clear sky. The main reason for getting hold of Karstad for his intrinsic value had now gone, for it was obvious that Karstad was not on their side and he doubted if he would ever get any information out of the man. But meanwhile his principal job was unchanged — to get hold of Lubin. Lubin was said to be in Australia — unless that information too was false — and that was the way he and Karstad were both going. If Karstad were handled carefully he might yet point the way to Lubin’s whereabouts…
Shaw turned, faced Sir Donald. He said crisply, “I think you’re right, sir. I’ll drop the question of Karstad’s part in this for the time being. But that means I’ll have to ask you something else.”
“Well?”
“I’d like you to let the inquiry drop now, sir. Pass the word that you’re satisfied.”
The Captain’s eyebrows went up. “What? What d’you mean?”
“Well, sir — aren’t we going to get badly held up in Port Said over all this, for one thing? I mean, if it’s — unsolved, as it were?”
“Yes, we most certainly are. Unless we can produce an answer, with fully sworn statements for entry into the Official Log and all that, they’ll probably hold the ship for full-scale investigations.”
Shaw said wearily, “It’s all very well talking about producing answers, sir. I’m still convinced it’s murder and Andersson did it. You’ll only be wasting your time looking for anything else. Anyway — here’s my suggestion. Don’t let it be known that murder was ever suspected. Call it death from natural causes. You said the man who found the body didn’t touch him, so he won’t have seen anything to make him suspicious. And murder was never mentioned, was it, to any of the people you questioned this morning?”
“No. But why d’you want this, Shaw?”
“Because we don’t want anyone to know we’re on the track, sir. And once people start looking into a case of murder — and murder of the MAPIACCIND man in charge of Red-cap — it’s going to blow all aspects of security. Then there’s the question of delay which I mentioned. It’s vital we get REDCAP to Bandagong as fast as possible with this threat hanging about.”
“It’s a pretty extreme thing to do, if it is murder.”
“I know. But there’s so much at stake. Well, sir?”
After a long pause Sir Donald said: “I see your point. But won’t it make a murderer think? I mean, he’ll know what he’s done.”
“Yes, but we mightn’t.” Shaw grinned tightly. “Why, sir, you don’t even really believe it’s murder yourself! That’s the whole point of Karstad’s method. There’s no mark on the body to speak of, and it just doesn’t look like murder. If I hadn’t known Karstad’s methods I’d never have been so sure myself.”
Sir Donald said, “All right, Shaw. I’ll back you, God forgive me. But we’ll have to have a word with the doctor first.” He touched a bell-push by his desk.
After considerable pressure from Shaw, who revealed such of the background story as he felt able to after swearing the doctor to secrecy, O’Hara, who still hadn’t made up his mind anyway, agreed that in the circumstances he could quite properly put down the cause of death as heart failure; and this he was prepared to do, subject to Shaw’s guarantee that, since he was acting purely for the sake of national security, the department would see to it that if there should ever be any inquiry, he personally would be in the clear.
Sir Donald Mackinnon thereupon noted in the ship’s Official Log that Colonel Gresham had died of heart failure and that he had no reason to suspect other than natural causes; he then sent a cable ahead to this effect to the Line’s agents in Port Said and also reported direct to London. In due course he passed the word among the men he had interviewed that morning, that the inquiry was now complete and no resultant action had been found necessary.
Shaw, as soon as he could get a long message cyphered, reported everything in detail to Latymer, giving it as his view that it was now essential he should remain aboard the New South Wales instead of disembarking at Port Said. He added that he was himself taking over Colonel Gresham’s MAPIACCIND responsibilities aboard pending further orders. When this message was ready, he went up to the radio room to send it off. As he left the room, Sigurd Andersson came out of the library nearby. He said good evening to Shaw and walked on towards the radio room. Shaw looked back, noted that he had gone in. Shaw strolled away, gave Andersson time to send his message and then went back to the radio room, asked if he could just check up on his own message again. While he was pretending to do this, he looked about him and was able to glance quickly at the cable sent by Andersson.
He read:
COMING ASHORE STOP ARRANGE MEETING STOP ARRIVING
EIGHT P.M. REGARDS
ANDERSSON
It was addressed to the local agents of Ycecold Refrigeration and it could so easily have been merely to do with Andersson’s supposed job as a salesman. But it would have to be followed up now.
Afterwards, Shaw wondered if he’d been intended to read that message.
That evening in the dog watches and beneath a heavy, almost purple sky, the New South Wales stopped engines and the body of Colonel Gresham slid into the Mediterranean from under the draping of Sir Donald Mackinnon’s own Blue Ensign.
Shaw and Judith — and Sigurd Andersson — were among those who attended the simple, very moving service.
And the following morning, a long way across the Indian Ocean and the Great Australian Bight, a small, slightly built, grey-haired man with heavy spectacles hooked across large ears, walked down the hallway of a scruffy lodging-house in Sydney’s Woolloomooloo district and picked up his Sydney Morning Herald from the table where it had just been placed by a blousy woman in curlers.